Whether fightin', or spittin', my discipline is cell division Got you backin' up, in a defensive remission. A mass-kickin' anthem, heavyweight or bantam Holdin' cancer ransom, the microphage phantom.
Seems it's Stage Four, this the new fight joint Like a broken chemo kit, you're missing the point! We dominate your squamous with offense that's no nonsense My stem cells hit, get your reinforcements!
We strike quick at Hodgkin's, duckin' ICE picks, Bare-knuckle meds through my wrists, beat you lifeless. Never survive, cysts! Get forgot like Alzheimer's. Tumor zappers, gamma rays with boron primers.
The raw rhymer, turning lesions to old-timers, My incisors like a viper, bitin' through metastasizers! New PET scan ink, and we about to make you painless Take a couple Percs, and we'll stick 'em in your anus!
No real point to what I said other than pointless rambling. I highly enjoy the History Channel, usually mid morning on my days off. My old man, however, shouts at Trading Spaces, as well as every reality show he watches (which is every reality show)